Under the Andes eBook

“Billy,” said I, “there’s
the deuce to pay. You’re an old friend
of mine, and you possess a share of discretion, and
you’ve got to help me. Le Mire is gone.
I must find her.”

“Find Le Mire?” He stared at me in amazement.
“What for?”

“Because my brother Harry is with her.”

Then I explained in as few words as possible, and
I ended, I think, with something like this:

“You know, Billy, there are very few things
in the world I consider of any value. She can
have the lad’s money, and, if necessary, my
own into the bargain. But the name of Lamar must
remain clean; and I tell you there is more than a name
in danger. Whoever that woman touches she kills.
And Harry is only a boy.”

Billy helped me, as I knew he would; nor did he insist
on unnecessary details. I didn’t need
his assistance in the search, for I felt that I could
accomplish that as well alone.

But it was certainly known that Harry had been calling
on Le Mire at her hotel; conjectures were sure to
be made, leading to the assertions of busy tongues;
and it was the part of my friend to counteract and
smother the inevitable gossip. This he promised
to do; and I knew Billy. As for finding Harry,
it was too late to do anything that night, and I went
home and to bed.

The next morning I began by calling at her hotel.
But though the manager of the theater had gotten
no information from them, he had pumped them dry.
They knew nothing.

I dared not go to the police, and probably they would
have been unable to give me any assistance if I had
sought it. The only other possible source of
information I disliked to use; but after racking my
brain for the better part of the day I decided that
there was nothing else for it, and started on a round
of the ticket offices of the railroads and steamship
companies.

I had immediate success. My first call was at
the office where Harry and I were accustomed to arrange
our transportation. As I entered the head clerk—­or
whatever they call him—­advanced to greet
me with a smile.

“Tickets!” I muttered to myself.
And in my preoccupation I really neglected to listen
to him. Then aloud: “Where were the—­
tickets for?”

“Denver.”

“For Friday’s train?”

“Yes. The Western Express.”

That was all I wanted to know. I hurried home,
procured a couple of hastily packed bags, and took
the afternoon train for the West.

Chapter III.

A modernMarana.

My journey westward was an eventful one; but this
is not a “History of Tom Jones,” and I
shall refrain from detail. Denver I reached
at last, after a week’s stop-over in Kansas City.
It was a delightful adventure—­but it had
nothing to do with the story.